


Black Liquorice

by Neji



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Will, Domestic, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Murder Husbands, Rimming, Wedding, in which i completely disregard canon and write happy murder boys, slight sugar daddy hannibal but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neji/pseuds/Neji
Summary: “I do apologise,” he said again, dabbing his face with a washcloth as Will followed him through the door. “I saw a red-faced Warbler on my route through the forest.”“Red-faced?” Will regards. “Was it particularly embarrassed?” (wherein i completely rewrite Hannibal just so i can make them happy)





	

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to "how to ignore 3 seasons and make them get married and fuck all the time" by me
> 
> meet me in the void

Sat across from him, only twenty-five minutes into their weekly appointment, Will looked at Hannibal with eyes shining with understanding; eyes that said _you don't know me_ , spoken in a voice laced with a sort of bashfulness, _and you never will._ Hannibal decided to prove those eyes wrong, so crossed the room and bit into Will’s bottom lip. The kiss was simply a byproduct.

Four weeks later, after only a mild suggestion of exclusivity from Hannibal that Will did not seem to understand, the two had enrolled into a purgatory of ‘more than friends’ but ‘less than lovers’.

Despite himself, Hannibal had been running late this morning, literally _running_ late, and had near burst into his house at a quarter past seven when he had hoped to be home no later than five-to. William had been waiting patiently for him on the porch, early as usual. Hannibal is ashamed to have kept him waiting, and as a reward for his kind manners and a form of apology, Hannibal did not comment on the furry mop of blackened hair in Will’s arms. Hannibal guesses it to be a dog, but doesn’t mention it, at least not until he had finished apologising for his lateness.

“I do apologise,” he said again, dabbing his face with a washcloth as Will followed him through the door. “I saw a red-faced Warbler on my route through the forest.”

“Red-faced?” Will regards. “Was it particularly embarrassed?”

Hannibal ignores him, yet smiles, and comments: “Perhaps it was angry. They kill each other’s children in a fit of jealousy. One warbler mates with every female it can, and the females turn vicious with one another.”

“They all want him for themselves?”

“Precisely.”

“I enjoyed watching the sunrise. I wish we had watched it together.” Will says idly, petting the stray dog’s ear. Hannibal reflects for only an instant on the romantic implication. “There’ll be more.”

Pausing in the kitchen, plugging in his juicer, Hannibal extends an invitation for a freshly squeezed orange juice for Will by holding up a crystal glass. Will nods.

“Stay here tonight,” he says, or more commands; Will nods as if he had already decided to do so beforehand. Hannibal admires his initiative. “I presume you are going to tell me about the dog?”

Will doesn't seem to have realised that carrying a foreign pet into someone's house with no explanation is outstandingly _weird_. His face scrunches in some form of disgust. “I found this little guy on the way over, he seems pretty cold.”

Hannibal's inner voice objects completely to the idea of a stray dog in his house. He numbly regards it, shredding purple kale from the stem with a sharpened steel knife and imagining the muddy footprints that will stain his black marble tiles. He begins to peel a banana. “What do you intend to do with it?”

“Clean him, warm him up.” Will says, but Hannibal only hears keep it. He knows Will well enough by now to know that when he starts to look after it, he will simply never stop. Hannibal cuts open a satsuma and peels away the flecks of white skin from its flesh. “Could I use the guest bathroom?”

“Use ours.” Hannibal insists, and for a reason yet unknown to him he does not object to will sniffing at the dog's head so closely; his lips almost on its fur. It yelps for the first time. “It will have more shampoo, and I can clean it more easily.”

Will smiles brightly at him, perhaps from the mention of Hannibal’s consent to use his products or the announcement that it was theirs both to use. Hannibal turns the juicer on just to hear the dog scramble in panic.

*

“You should really get an instagram,” She told Will, but her eyes dusted over the phone screen and up to Hannibal’s; brown and red. Hannibal remains silent, sipping at his coffee, but acknowledges her remark with a smile. The cafe around them bustles as Will continues showing Beverly pictures of the new puppy, whom Hannibal had kindly starting referring to as _Alfombra_.

“Alfie,” Will corrects.

“What’s the long name mean?” Beverly asks, using her greasy finger that had previously been holding a blue cheese croissant to flick through the photos on Will’s phone.

Only now does Hannibal speak. “It’s spanish for ‘rug’.”

*

At the end of the day, Hannibal didn’t really want to kill Beverly; he admired her for her patience with Will, and she was the only person in Will’s life that respected his space. So he had quietly watched her spray flakes of pastry across the table when she laughed, but that only happened the once for the entire breakfast, and Will had only proceeded to do the same. Admittedly it was with less vigor, and Hannibal knew he was somewhat bias with Will’s manners because of their romantic entanglement.

It was also getting harder to think of killing Beverly, as time went on. Even when Hannibal brought dinner over to the dining table and Will’s phone buzzed gently in his pocket with each text she sent him, asking for more pictures of the dog, Hannibal didn’t think it warranted killing her. He had once killed a man who lingered too long touching Will’s arm.

“Are you taking the dog to a shelter tomorrow? I was thinking we could go to see the mystery unveiling at the Renaissance Gallery in the afternoon.”

Will smiles a small smile, like he does not mean to, “I was going to,”

“Was?” Hannibal says. He keeps his voice low, and mocking, almost comedic. He tries not to appear threatening. It works, and Will links their ankles under the table. He hears the snoring of the dog somewhere under there too.

Will spears a bloodied piece of steak onto his fork. Hannibal had opted for the gold cutlery set tonight, to match the shavings on the truffle mash. He also finds the metallic twang of the gold on his tongue and the scent of the precious metal in the air only helps to enhance the flavour of the Baltimore Orchestra’s awful trombone player. Will finishes savoring it before he speaks, something Hannibal is thankful for.

“I think we should live together,” Will says, and Hannibal is mildly shocked at the bravery he displays.

“Is this your way of avoiding the topic of Alfombra?”

“You say that like we both don’t know I'm keeping Alfie,”

Hannibal smiles at him again, scooping a blood-reduction soaked asparagus onto the back of his fork. “Would you live here?”

“Could you stand my kitchen?”

Hannibal resists chewing his lip, supposing he couldn’t, but he doesn’t voice it. He allowed Will to weigh the options in his head, considering it would be difficult to live together in Will’s small, rustic house. If he lived with Will it would be harder to kill him. “Let’s talk after dinner.”

They ate in silence afterwards, but Will didn’t appear angry. Hannibal admired him extensively for his patience in return; and, when he thought about it, perhaps he tolerated Beverly only as a thank-you for Will tolerating him. However, Will had the expression of someone who had won something; and, if Hannibal was honest, he had already won something.

In his head, Hannibal decided the shade of purple for their new lounge. He pictured oakwood and dark maroons, and luscious silks. He pictured the dogs in a kennel in the garden, and Will sat in the morning sun surrounded by them.

*

Will spreads out across their bed. Hannibal had replaced the sheets only that morning, and they were still almost crispy with how clean they were. Will had been showering only a few minutes before, and so he still appeared to be energetic. He nattered quietly to Hannibal as he tapped at his phone.

Hannibal sits at his dressing table, polishing his face with a cleanser made from maple blossom honey. He ignores Alfombra running at his ankles.

“You really don’t mind him being up here with us?”

“When we get a house together, I won't allow it. For now, I suppose, we won't be here for much longer. I will employ a cleaner to finish everything before I sell it, so I might as well let the dog run around.”

Will’s smile returns. He continues tapping at his phone. “You’ll sell this place?”

It hadn’t occurred to Hannibal _not to_. “Yes, of course. I think I cannot possibly add anything more to it. It has reached it’s full potential, and I would quite like a new project.” Hannibal’s smile was interrupted as he put a moisturiser across his chin. “Will you not sell yours?”

“...I don’t think I will,” His face was suddenly solemn. Hannibal understood, and was not offended. “It’s not as any kind of safety net, I just…”

“I know,” Hannibal says.

“Thank you.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply, unscrewing a lip butter and generously lathering it across his top lip. He rubs his mouth together to spread it across, enjoying the natural scent of the fruit. Will seems to sniff the air, similar to Alfombra, who now has the ability to see where he is going after Will cut a large clump of dirt from his face. Hannibal supposes he is quite an enjoyable addition; and without the fur he looks more like a long-haired Dachshund than a rug.

Will frowns at his phone. “How do I make the screen darker?”

Hannibal smirks. He takes a few wide strides over to Will, balancing with his knee on the bed and leaning over to prod at the screen. Their hands touch, but it’s too familiar for either of them to dwell on it. “I should have gotten you an iPhone, they’re much easier.”

“Oh,” Will murmurs when he sees how easy it was to change his settings. Hannibal remains in his position, face a picture of mirth. “Maybe, but this was a wonderful gift. I’ve never had a touchscreen before.”

Will smells of comfort. A gentle smell of tea tree from his body wash, the tinge of desire from Hannibal’s proximity; a touch of deliciousness. Hannibal’s mouth waters with the idea of how Will would taste this evening. Hannibal leans in to kiss him, and catches his top lip between his teeth simply because he could. Will makes a surprised, yet certain sound.

“What is that? On your lips? Is that the smell?” Will’s eyes shine wildly, the light from the lamp on the dressing table the only thing enlightening them other than their flirtatious spirits. Alfombra tries to jump on the bed, distracting them.

“White strawberry and ginger lip balm,” Hannibal says. He flicks at Alfombra's paw, to remove his nails from the sheets, but Will catches his arm. Hannibal relents immediately, to his own embarrassment. “I’ll pile some cushions.”

“Can I have some of that lip balm?”

Hannibal wordlessly removes himself from the bed and collects the small tin. He entertains himself with creating a dog bed on the floor, paying no thought to putting it on Will’s side of the bed. Alfombra seems to be confused as to what to do with the pillows. Hannibal regards him with silent contempt. They’re Egyptian cotton, hand washed.

“You sit on it Alfie,” Will coos, patting the highest point. He rolls onto his front to reach across and rub the dog’s ear, Hannibal stares at the curving of his spine.

Hannibal finishes his routine, gently running exfoliants over his face and neck; enjoying the scent of Will’s happiness. Will’s breathing evens out behind him, the smell of white strawberry and ginger fading into sleep.

*

Will wakes him the next morning with a mouth around the swollen head of his cock, hidden under the sheets as an obtuse slurping sound makes Hannibal’s face redden. He awakens quickly, as always; like someone opened his mind as if drawing curtains. Patting at Will’s moving head under the duck-feather duvet, Hannibal relinquishes a smile.

“Good morning,”

Will only moans an agreement, which jolts Hannibal against the bed a little. Will becomes determined, spurred by the reaction; he sinks lower, his hands joining to rub and cup anything he can't reach, his tongue and throat working leisurely.

Hannibal, after an overdrawn ejaculation which must have lasted twice as long as normal (and from the humming delight clicking in the air, Will had noticed that too), allows Will to sleep an hour longer as he makes quail egg Spanish omelette. He sprinkles it with shreddings of the crispy hide of Amelia Stratton, who had served him as a tailor two years before. Revisiting her to find her just as arrogant and underwhelming as before had violated him.

He suspended her from the ceiling of her shop, sewing needles protruding from her eyes and mouth, her innards dangling along with several silk ties; merged into a display. He was paying three thousand dollars for a suit, the least she could do was make it well.

“Oh no.” He says, returning to find Alfombra on the bed. “That simply will not happen,”

“We can get a new bed too,” Will only says. “A fresh one.”

Hannibal’s face remains steeled in a frown, but he runs his hand along the bumps of Will’s neck as they walk together down the stairs.

*

Will’s face was projecting annoyance, but his smell was pure anger. Crackling pig skin, open flames, and ice. That was the smell of Will’s jealousy mixed with his lack of patience. Hannibal refrains from thinking about it too hard, focusing on driving back to William’s house. He wants Will to get angry at him.

“I liked the first one,” he says, and for reasons unknown to the non-compulsive side of him, he says, “Angelica seemed to think it was perfect-?”

“ _Angelica_ ,” Will spits. “She would have said anything to get you to look at her.”

“I think you’ll find it had more to do with the first one being the most expensive, she does get commission.”

“She liked you.”

“She was very polite,” Hannibal looks from the corner of his eye and sees Will staring out of the passenger window, anger rolling off of his skin like sweat. “I think she was aware of us.”

“Only because you called me ‘darling’ by accident. No one is aware of us.”

“Do you think I do anything by accident?”

This is the closest thing to an argument they’ve had about the new house. Bickering about the dogs had passed long ago, and the design and colour scheme had not even been a subject to encroach; Hannibal had no compromise on those, and Will had no opinion.

“I forget you’re attractive to other people, I guess.” Will grumbles.

Hannibal is surprised by this revelation, and then he is surprised at himself for being surprised. Will’s expression changes from one of anger to a form of grumpy, overtired puppy.

“Sorry.”

“It's perfectly fine,” Hannibal says. He feels less numb, now, as he drives. He feels the twinkly of affection in his chest. Then he feels mischievous. “You think I'm attractive?” and he flicks an eyebrow up, glancing at Will for only a moment. Will smiles at him, soft and warm.

“I liked the first one too,” Will says. “It had nice rooms. I liked how many rooms there were,” Hannibal hears the implication that they could fill the rooms. “The garden was big, we could grow things. It does cost a lot though,”

“Let me worry about that. My current house will sell for quite a lot.”

“And you’re OK with buying it for us?” Will asks, and Hannibal smells nervousness in the air. He supposes that Will had been meaning to ask that for a while.

“It won’t be my house,” Hannibal offers as a solution.

“I know… just, with me still owning mine and you owning this one it feels like… it’s not real.” Will begins to trail off, and Hannibal admires his honesty. “I want to be merged with you completely. No turning back, no escape. I want us to be unmercifully joined together for as long as we breathe.”

Will says those things like he was listing their shopping. Hannibal sees in that instant how far they have actually come.

“We are each other's entirely,” Hannibal starts, “I only want you.”

This seems to calm Will significantly. He reclines in the passenger side until they reach Wolf Trap, his breathing slow and peaceful.

Hannibal had refrained from bringing any sausage with him for the dogs; Alfombra had been spoiled beyond the rest while he stayed with Hannibal over the weekend, and so jealously had formed in the pack. Winston runs up to him, expectant as always, but Hannibal doesn’t pet him, occupied with carrying a picnic basket of vegetables and running his hand over Will’s arm.

“Can I slice the zucchini?” Will asks as hannibal unloads the food onto the countertop. Hannibal shuffles to stand at his side, arms brushing. He had brought his own knives, purely from habit. He had gotten Will a new set already, a few weeks prior; and they were as well made as his own; but Will doesn't mention them, and still takes one of Hannibal’s when he offers.

Hannibal reflects on the psychology of Will’s romantical need to use his knives. If he was going to (and it still remained a possibility, he convinces himself), he would use them to slice open Will’s chest and eat his heart whole, and feel what it was like to have Will completely. A small voice says he already does. “One finger widths, if you could.”

“You normally use two,” Will says, smirking, and Hannibal snorts.

They slice vegetables in harmony; and Will throws the end of the zucchini to Winston as punishment for hovering so close to the food, as he had been shown not to, and Winston eats the vegetable mistaking it for sausage. When he coughs in disgust, Will is thrown into a fit of laughter.

Hannibal’s heart swells; understanding why the idea of not allowing Will to bring the dogs into their new house had not struck him. A question hangs on the tip of his tongue. It would be harder to kill Will if they became any closer. The inkling inside of him that begs for him to consume every part of Will shouts at him; it says do it now.

“Will,” he says solemnly, and Will turns back to him after finishing his torturous ridicule of Winston. Winston does not look as amused as Will; like a child embarrassed by their parent. “It worries me that if anything were to happen to me, you would need to move back here.”

They both look around the house; it is homely, if slightly chilly, and reeks of Will. But, in the movement of things, for it to only smell of Will, to only taste of Will; to only be Will’s, would make him incredibly lonely if Hannibal were to ever be compromised. It seems to have occurred to Will too.

“I would have the dogs,” but the statement hangs in the air, unfinished. “I would have Beverly, Jack… Alana, perhaps. I would only be half a man. I wouldn't need much.”

Hannibal resumes spiralling a swede. “We could get married,”

“Married?” Will says.

“Everything of mine would be yours.”

Will chews his bottom lip.

“Everything of mine would be yours too,” Will says; as confirmation, as a yes. “It already is.” Hannibal scoops him into an embrace with his right arm, his left still spinning spirals. The moaning of a deceived Winston whistled louder than Will’s sniffling.

*

“Jack just text me again,” Will says, and Hannibal resents ever buying that phone. “He says it's eight girls now.”

“He's trying to appeal to your human nature. It only speaks for his incompetence.” Hannibal rolls onto his side, some weeks having past since he allowed more than one of Will’s dogs into his house, and now he could smell them outside the door. The promise of a fresh carpet in the new house had been compelling enough to relax his rules. Will tangles a hand along his pectorals, absently curling his fingers in Hannibal's chest hair.

“The shrike took a girl back,” Will only says. All Hannibal thinks is _amateur_. “She had liver cancer.”

“She was unusable to him,”

“He felt guilty… he returned her home…” Will nattered absently, while his fingers began typing quickly at the phone screen; replying to jack with a million and one deductions of the crime. Hannibal reaches out and takes Will’s hand again, holding it to his chest where it had been. Will looks up at him with surprise. “You don't want me to help,” he says, as a declaration and not a question. “The Shrike misses his daughter, she hasn't even left yet.”

“You're too involved.” Hannibal says, as a means of self preservation. He doubts Will would come away from the scene with just one killer discovered. Will looks at him like he doesn't understand. _You're too involved,_ Hannibal thinks. _Too involved with killers already._

“I could help someone,”

“You are bound by your empathy for the victims. If you do not keep a distance, you'll be bound by empathy for the killers.” _Sympathise with me,_ Hannibal tries to convey, _I won't lose you unwillingly._

Will agrees with a nod, and nibbles on Hannibal's right ear. Hannibal smells a shift in Will’s mood; pure black liquorice.

“We haven't fucked in a while,”

“Have we not?” Hannibal leans over, grabbing a handful of Will’s ribs and slotting his fingers between each jut. Will responds eagerly, falling onto his back; a position Hannibal had grown accustomed to. Will submits himself physically for Hannibal to lace his fingers through any hair; to stroke any hardening flesh - to scratch any skin, and Will grunts when Hannibal attaches their lips.

When Will grabs his wrist and surprises him, in spite of his awareness. “Touch me,” Will breathes against him, “Quickly,” and Hannibal runs his fingers over the furrow of Will’s opening.

  
The dry contact of their skin makes them both tremor; the raw and coarse feeling of an almost callow brush of Hannibal’s unlubed fingers at Wills entrance suddenly both their focus. It works as an intermediate distraction as Hannibal gracelessly hunts for lubricant in the bedside drawer.

He flicks the cap and pours a cherry and vanilla scented paste directly onto Will, right on the most organic part of him; Hannibal knows his scent is strongest in the gap between his thigh and crotch. He buries his face there as he pushes the index finger of his right hand into Will, his left holding Will’s flank open and wide.

Will splutters above him; a fervent sound, a directive for Hannibal. Hannibal ignores it, and strokes the inside of Will with only one finger. When he massages and manipulates the flesh he feels, his fingertips attuned, he can differentiate the softness of the walls of Will’s hole. The skins inside is soft, ribbed; slightly too hot to the touch, enough to have his hand burn. He crooks his finger upwards to feel the difference; a small packet of spongy nerve endings hidden deep. He knocks on it, and surely it opens.

“Oh,” Will moans. “Oh, yes,”

Will is reduced to a plethora of sounds.

Hannibal picks his head up from the hollow of Will’s tense stomach; sucking a trail to Will’s neck. He attaches his lips to a jagged line on Will’s face; perhaps his cheekbone, perhaps his jaw; Hannibal's senses were being overloaded by Will; his nose full of the smell of arousal and spunk.

Hannibal shoves a knee against the back of his hand, thrusting his hips and using the momentum to breach Will open on his hand again and again. Will yelps, spurting strings of semen between them. “Oh wow, uh…” Will makes a drawn out moan, throwing his hands above his head. “Fuck me, please,”

Hannibal pushes Will’s hands down against the sheets. “Yes,”

Will throws his free leg around Hannibal’s hip, the other trapped between Hannibal’s own still. Hannibal rectifies this by manoeuvring them; throwing a leg over his shoulder.

“We haven't done it like this in a while,” Will comments, a sly eyebrow creeping up to his hairline. Hannibal stokes lube onto himself, leaning down to place a single kiss against Will’s lips. He lingers there. “You just did that to shut me up.”

“You're always talkative after an orgasm. It releases your inhibitions, it's wonderful.”

“It's wonderful alright,” Will banters back to him. Hannibal really shuts him up this time, sliding the bulbous head of his cock past Will’s entrance and feeling a pop of satisfaction when he slips the rest of the way in. “Fuck, yes, talk to me,”

Hannibal fucks him slow, whispering into his ear; things no one who would ever live or die could ever know, other than Will.

*

Hannibal hears a gruff voice answer before he speaks. “They know.”

He hangs up, a napkin laced around his hand out of habit. He realises absently that he didn't need to keep his fingerprints from his work phone. He dials Will’s number, as an afterthought for an alibi; but, in the back of his memory palace, he reflects on the way Will had screamed the night before and wants to hear his voice again.

“Hannibal,” Will says after only three rings, in a way he doesn't often; full of pride. “You're calling me on my lunch break? Very domestic.”

“What are you eating?”

“That sounds like the beginning of a sexy call. _What are you wearing_?”

“I know exactly what you're wearing because I saw you this morning,”

“No fun,” Hannibal can hear his laugh. “I've just got a sandwich. It's got some avocado in it, and some ground garlic pepper.”

Hannibal hums. “Avocado doesn't excite me much.”

“What does?”

“You.” Hannibal answers truthfully. Will laughs again. Hannibal paces his office, distracted by the phonecall. He notices his next appointment is in fifteen minutes. “I could have made you some lunch, too. Stay again tonight.”

“I have to walk to dogs. Come to my house.”

“Sounds like a reasonable compromise. How do you feel about sheep lungs?”

“I can't say I have a particular opinion. Seems to work on the sheeps. I saw one sprint quite far once.”

“This one didn't sprint far enough,” Hannibal says, the image of Cassie Boyle running frantically through the forest behind her house clear in his mind. His eyes shine, but his face is still. “We’ll have them tonight. I have to go, I just wanted to tell you I had a wonderful time last evening.”

“Why,” Will says, in a tone that tells Hannibal he is about to say something to annoy him. “You're getting so romantic, sweetheart. I'll see you later.”

They hang up, and Hannibal prepares his office for his patient.

Three hours later Garret Jacob Hobbs slaughters his wife in Minnesota, and slashes his daughter's throat before police arrive on the scene.

Hannibal sits peacefully on the sofa, watching the news headline scroll by on his tablet. Will sings gently to the puppies in the other room, a song about a boat, and returns to the sofa to put his feet in Hannibal's lap. Garret Jacob Hobbs is shot within the seconds that Hannibal grasps his hands around Will’s toes; rubbing circles into the balls of his feet.

*

“I know you don't want a big wedding,” Will says. “Why don't we just do it. Right now, today?”

It was Sunday afternoon, and Hannibal had eaten an eight ounce steak and a generous helping of sweet potato mash, and the idea of moving had long since escaped him. He was not spontaneous, nor had he been since his youth. Sometimes he thinks about where Will would be without him.

“Today?”

“It's rainy,” Will says, as if that offered any explanation. “We would waste this day indoors otherwise.”

“I was going to make vinegar chips today for us to snack on. They need time to soak.”

“How much time?”

“Forty minutes to an hour.”

“Enough time for me to call the city hall,” Will stands from the dining table and carries his plate into the kitchen, not asking to take Hannibal's too. “Unless you wanted a church,”

“City hall is fine. If slightly underwhelming,”

“Where would you marry me?”

Hannibal follows his distant voice into the kitchen. Will begins to run the sink, sleeves rolled high. Hannibal can see the restlessness in his shoulders; he can smell it. Will has started getting impatient.

“There's a church in Italy. Near naples, away from the roads. Instead of a crucifix on its steeple it has an osprey.”

“An osprey? Why?”

“It was sponsored by a falconry enthusiast. Nothing metaphorical or sacrilegious.”

“You think it's ironic?”

“I do. It's almost neopagan,” Hannibal offers. He loops his arms around Will; bracing him against the counter, and submerges his hands in the water to grasp at Will’s own. “We don't have rings,”

“Maybe we should wait for Naples, then.”

“It's near naples,” Hannibal says; more to see Will’s eyebrows twitch in annoyance.

They don’t make it a week before Hannibal flies them out on a private jet: the destination flashing on their onboard television as _near Naples_. Will pulls his hair while they kiss as punishment.

*

“Mister Lecter and Mister Lecter,” Will says, face flushed with red wine. Hannibal looks at the concierge in a hard way, and he scoops the keys from the hook behind him speedily. “If you please,”

"Dottore e Mister Lecter," Hannibal corrects in Italian as they receive their keys. Will only understands Doctor because of the similar pronunciation.

“Mano meilė, esate girtas.” Hannibal says in Lithuanian. Will moans, even though he doesn't understand, and grabs at Hannibal's suit collar to drag him bodily into the elevator.

“Will, we're the last room on the left.” Hannibal says, a means of forcing Will forward before he tries to mount him in the elevator doorway; the doors yelling to close. Will catches his hand and drags him to the door, waiting impatiently for Hannibal to open it. Will’s hands were all over him, along anything he could fondle. Hannibal feels breath on his lips as soon as he closes the door behind them. Hannibal tastes black liquorice.

“Shall we fuck on the bed?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers, as if Will has asked if he wanted to eat food again some day; with a definite, obvious answer. “Where else,”

“S’there a balcony?”

“ _William_ ,” Hannibal pushes his tongue into Will’s mouth, pushing him past the foyer of their room and into the adjoining bedroom. “It’s our wedding night, not our honeymoon.”

“How do you want it?” Will grabs a handful of silver hair and another of well tailored suit; pulling Hannibal on top of him onto the bed. “Can I ride you?”

“Of…” Hannibal struggles to finish as Will sucks on his ear. “Of course, darling, anything,”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

The throw their clothes in every which-way; even Hannibal's, and they reorder themselves until Hannibal’s back rests against the white leather headboard; Will stretching nicely backwards, hands braced behind himself near Hannibal’s thighs as Hannibal delicately rubs at his balls. He grabs at Will’s cock. “Ah… ah, yes- ohh-!”

Unexpectedly, Will comes apart between them, orgasming wetly onto Hannibal's stomach.

“Shit,” Will pants, completely taken aback. “Shit, I think I needed that,”

“It seems so,” Hannibal reassures. Will slithers down his body, taking a mouthful of Hannibal and sliding lower and lower; using a hand to reach up and pinch at hardened nipples; another pressing at Hannibal’s stomach, leverage to lift Hannibal's hips higher.

“Mmm,” Hannibal lets his head fall back, his eyes narrowed down to continue to stare at Will; their eyes locking, fuck, and Will-- _oh_ \- Will hollows his cheeks on a particularly slow withdrawal, Mmm, and his tongue jabs into the slit-!

Hannibal comes, then, into his Husband's mouth.

“Wow,” Will says, his voice straining. “That was a good one, huh?”

Hannibal can only nod.

They lay useless for a while, Will draped across his lap; fondly stroking at Hannibal's soft cock, kissing the hair or pulling the skin with his teeth, when he felt exceptionally brave.

They shower together in the eight-person shower, with built in seats; it even has a steam setting, and Will pesters Hannibal to turn the water hotter, and Hannibal pesters Will back to let him shampoo and condition his unruly curls into subjugation.

In the end, they both win.

 

“Tell me something I don't know,” Will says, voice slurred with physical and emotional drunkenness. They fold back the sheets, mussed but miraculously come-free; Hannibal on the left side, Will on the right. They meet in the middle, scooped into an embrace. Will reaches over and flicks a master switch to plunge them into darkness, but he can still see Hannibal's eyes in the shadow.

“About me or about something else?”

“You,”

“Ok,” Hannibal ponders silently, carding a hand through Will’s hair, occasionally pulling a ringlet until it straightened and then releasing it. Water flicks onto his fingertips. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Why do you love the things you love?”

Hannibal's eyes raise at the heavy question, from Will’s mouth to his eyes. “And what, would you say, are the things I love?”

“Cooking,” Will answers surely. “Dark wood interior. Me, and opera. Sometimes I think you like my ipod more that you let on.”

“I got the ipod, you borrowed it indefinitely.”

“What's mine is yours,” Will said, stretching his arms high over Hannibal's head and hitting his knuckles on the headboard. He settles back again, back popping in several satisfying places.  
“Why did you put yourself only second?”

Will pauses. “I put myself in the center.”

“That makes me happy,” Hannibal admits. “I'm happy to know you finally know your worth. You're precious to me.”

“Answer my question.” Will avoids, face pinking in the black.

“Hm. Why do I love the things I love… I love cooking because it's base. Eating is basic. Eating is necessary, but extravagance… Drama, that is unnecessary. I like cooking because I can improve on the basic. I can make something so instinctual and raw into something artistic. I love dark wood interior no more than the next man. I hired a particular designer for the house and he seemed very passionate, he said I had a dark soul. He didn't last long after he finished.” Hannibal served his liver on a bed of congealed pig's blood and a rocket salad. “I loved my sister Mischa before she died.

“I love you.” That was all Hannibal said on that matter.

“I love the opera because it is an art. There's nothing romantic about it, it is something I enjoy. I do not love the ipod.”

“Lies,” Will says, but he digs his fingers into Hannibal’s shoulder and falls asleep soon after, the smallest tinge of a smile on his lips.

***

 

Alana comes over to help Will pack he and Hannibal’s things away. She raises her eyebrows quietly at each expensive or over exuberant thing that Will wraps up (in four layers of heavy duty bubble wrap, as instructed).

She hands Will a lavish box, significantly heavier than the others, holding the velvet drapes for their new bedroom. She peeks through the lid, subtle enough that Will doesn't notice. “You're moving very fast. I'm proud of both of you.”

“Thanks,” Will grunts, unknowing what else to say. “We got married last week.”

“Ha ha,”

Will watches as Alana rethinks. “Really?”

Will holds his hand up, a classic gold band slightly tinged by the bad light. In his other he hold a small velvet box with a brooch shaped like a stag. “Doctor and Mister Lecter,”

“Wow… Will, wow, I'm amazed, I didn't think you'd ever be this-?”

“Stable?” Will interrupts.

“Open,”

They continue to pack away the smaller knick knacks, some candles and candlesticks; a discarded pair of cufflinks in their Chanel box. Will had picked them; Hannibal didn't like Chanel. Too common, too new, Will supposes. He does feel open. Like his chest was torn open; like his ribs were wings.

“Have you heard about the Shrike?” Alana asks, after Will observes her microexpressions of some deliberation. He raises his eyebrows. He should have known she had an agenda.

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting you to bring it up. It’s a rightful conclusion.”

“His daughter survived.”

Will looked at Alana for a while. “How?”

“Does it matter-?”

“He slit her throat,” Will said. “Did he miss or something?” Will thought about how Hannibal would have laughed at him. He was catering his humour for his husband, and Alana looked at him like she knew it.

“She survived, but she's not really living… and she doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me.”

“Do you trust her?”

Alana makes a noncommittal facial expression, similar to a gurn. “I don't think she was an alias to her father, for sure, but she's not telling us something.”

“You want Hannibal to see her,”

“If he got to you, he can get to anyone.”

Will continues to pack, feeling like his heart was dangling by the aorta. “I got to him just as good. Don’t undermine us.” He says, and Alana seemed to get more uncomfortable as the afternoon went on, until eventually she leaves.

*

“Do you think you have mild dissociative tendencies?” Jack said aggressively, for the second time in a row.

“By implication I would get them. I'm not saying now.” Jack looks frustrated. “If I spend all my time being someone else, I'm sure it will happen. I'm married to a physiotherapist, Jack, I'm smarter than this and you know it.”

“But you're not being them,” Jack rebuffs. “You're just imagining you are.”

Will sighs. He looks down at his phone; Hannibal would be starting on the mackerel by now. He looks back to Jack. “I need to go. Don't call me, I'll call you.”

“Think about it. It's just a house now, there's no bodies. I know she must have helped.”

By the time Will gets home, keys to Hannibal’s Bentley dangling in his teeth as he juggles two cartons of dog food and a multipack of store-bought bones, the mackerel needed reheating.

Will wasn't surprised to find a girl, whom he presumed to be Abigail Hobbs, sitting at his dining table.

“Will,” Hannibal extends his arm from his seat at the table to take a handful of the back of Will’s thigh and draw him close; his thumb dangerously close to the back of Will’s balls. “This is Abigail, she's very interested in your brain.”

“So is everyone else, apparently.” Will says. He smiles at Abigail anyway, gliding his eyes over the scarf around her neck. “Jack is on my back about this already. He wants me to go to your house.”

“He thinks I killed those girls,” Abigail says, her voice wobbling weakly. “They were my friends…”

Hannibal’s hand retreats, reaching to pat Abigail's on the table. Will regards the action closely, heart warm.

“We don't believe or agree with Jack's accusations. He’s trying to convince such an immaculate empath to help him simply because he lacks an ounce of empathy himself.”

“It's true,” Will agrees. He heats up his fish dinner in the oven, seeing that his husband had kept it on so that he could quickly join them again at the table.

When he sits, he notices Hannibal has a face on. A specific face. Will’s stomach fills with butterflies.

*

“You want babies,” Will announces. “Don’t you.”

“Babies?”

“ _Babies_. How many?”

Hannibal shuffles in the driver's seat, returning from Abigail's drop off point at the hospital. His face is smug. “I didn’t think you would notice. You're impressing me.”

“I'm always impressing you. How many? I bet you want four or five don't you. Lithuanian blood.”

“Two.”

“Two?”

“Sometimes, before I met you, I would drop a teacup on the floor to watch it shatter. It never picked itself back up, or gathered again. I was always disappointed.” Hannibal looks at him from the corner of his eye. “You've shown me that I need to pick the teacup up with my own hands.”

“You should have said that on our wedding night.” Will reaches over and braces his hand on Hannibal's knee. “I want to help you.”

“I was thinking,” Hannibal says. “Abigail reminds me of Mischa.”

And with that, it was decided.

*

The new house was so large that it swamped the dogs, and upon entry they fled into the kitchen and stayed there for four hours. Abigail sat with them for a long time, against the new cabinets and patting Buster’s slobbering chin as he bounced onto his back. Hannibal ran his hand along the marble countertops, and across the scarlet walls.

“It's nice,” Will said. “I don't know about the red. Have you picked a room Abigail?”

“Hm?” She said. “Oh. Yeah, I'll pick now.” And she scurries away upstairs. The dogs, other than Alfie, follow. Alfie hovers around Hannibal's ankles.

“What's wrong with the red?”

“It's a bit dramatic.”

“I'm afraid you married a dramatist,” Hannibal holds a hand out, palm up, for Will to take. “The stove is the best on the market. The fridge cycles oxygen to keep food fresh for days longer. The cellar is ideal for aging wine,” Hannibal draws him into a hug, holding his hip and extending their joined hands to their side. “The stereo is voice activated. Play.”

A composition Will had heard many times before, yet could not name, began to play. Hannibal makes them sway; dancing slowly.

“Is that all the cellar is ideal for?”

Hannibal doesn't answer him, and they continue to dance until Will simply cannot hold out anymore; he pushes Hannibal against the counter, rubbing a hand across the front of Hannibal’s dress pants. Hannibal smells black liquorice.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, flipping them around and pushing Will face first down against the cold marble, a hand on the back of Will’s skull; fingers in his hair. He hikes a hand under Will’s hips to pull them up; rips his jeans down around his bent knees. “I want to consume you,”

“Do it.” Will demands, pushing his ass up into the air. Hannibal drops to his knees and licks a stripe up the centre of Will’s cheeks; in the most raw, fundamental way. Will grunts, reaching to grab at the window ledge, the faucet on his left; the flour tin, anything, “Oh fuck, _oh_ \- tell me how much this house was, ah ah ah-,”

Hannibal fucks Will with his tongue, and doesn't answer. Will knows how much the house was. It was half his, legally; Hannibal didn't need a prenuptial agreement. He would die and give Will everything; he would kill, given the opportunity.

Will liked knowing how much he was worth to Hannibal. If Hannibal couldn't explain it emotionally, he could financially.

Will comes on their new countertop, voice a staccato against the solid weight of the shimmering black. Hannibal grabs Will’s hand, previously used to muffle his climactic shout; Hannibal continues to lick and suck, overstimulating until Will yelped and began to scream without abandon.

“Ah-! Fuck!”

Hannibal only stops to stand, his erection becoming heavy and uncomfortable. He spins Will back around, shoving him onto the side to sit; but Will fights back, grabbing his shirt collar and yanking Hannibal forward between his legs; unbuckling his belt and pants with no effort at all, an act of time.

“Talk to me,” Hannibal says. It was almost needy.

“I love you,” Will wraps a hand around his dick, fingers grasping at the soaked head; it almost pops out of his hand when he didn't realise how wet Hannibal would be. “I love our house,”

Hannibal leans against him, nibbling gently at Will’s neck.

“I love our dogs. I love our daughter,” Hannibal moans loudly, unabashedly, “I love the children we will have.” He flicks his wrist to the side, and Hannibal sinks his teeth in a little deeper. “I love your food and your taste in clothes, your taste in colour schemes… your taste in meat,

“I love our teacup. Can you see it?” Hannibal's hips start stuttering forward, his groaning becoming louder and longer.

“Will…”

“Can you see our teacup,” Will continues, and Hannibal starts to kiss up his jaw; across his stubble, to his mouth. Their mouths brush as Will talks, Hannibal's breath coming fast. “Can you see it?”

“It's still… oh… cracked,” Hannibal whispers. “But after you… it's glued together… It's still broken but… With you… It’s together,”

Hannibal coats them both, some of it so strong it lands on Will’s neck. Across the room, Alfie makes a noise of neglect.

Hannibal drags his husband into their new bedroom, their new bed overrun with dogs and a lone teenager in the center.

“Abbie?” Hannibal asks affectionately. Will smiles at him, a dopy smile, before realising he was still covered in both their semen. He runs past Abigail and the dogs to the bathroom with a gurgle, slamming the door behind him, hearing loud and feminine laughter. Hannibal opens the door anyway, joining him in front of the mirror to clean up. They brush their teeth in tandem. Hannibal returns to the bedroom before Will, and he hears low chattering and giggling.

When he returns, he finds Hannibal against the headboard in his silk sleeping clothes. Abigail rests next to him, her head on his chest, his hand against her shoulder. She's not asleep, her eyes open. Will joins next to Hannibal, lacing his right arm across his husband's front, trapping his left between them. Hannibal links their fingers.

“My father ate those girls,” Abigail says. “I ate those girls.”

“You honored them.” Hannibal says, and Abigail perks up; looking at him with a sort of adoration. “It would have been a waste, otherwise. It would have been for nothing.”

“It would have been murder,” Will agrees.

“Doctor Bloom says you two could have caught him,”

“We are an impeccable team.” Hannibal confirms. “I wouldn't have known where to start without Will. Maybe if we had been closer, we could have.”

“We were merely lovers,” Will mocks. “I didn’t know you at all,”

“And now look at us.” Hannibal turns back, kissing Will over his eyelashes. Will’s eyes settle closed, the light they left on in the hallways the only thing keeping him awake. “We are the same. We are one.”

“I know you better than the earth knows the moon,” Will says. He hears it in his mind in Hannibal's voice, convinced he was quoting something his husband must have said to him along the timeline of their relationship. “You can never hide from me, you know.”

“I never want to.”

Hannibal tightens their hands, and they drift into a sleep; the three of them, seven dogs, and a sense of community.

As Hannibal rearranges them soon after, leaving the bed to prepare the house; plunging them into darkness, removing all of the dogs (including a miserable Alfie), and relocating Abigail to her bedroom, he glances onto his Will.

  
Will looks back up at him through the darkness.

“Promise if you eat me, you will eat me raw.”

“I have already consumed you.” Hannibal replies. “Mere minutes ago.”

“Your humour is awful,”

Will rolls onto his front, and Hannibal lays half across his shoulders, his arms wrapped completely around Will, encasing him in a cocoon; his hands meeting a heartbeat on Will’s chest, warmed by the weight of them both. “I have consumed all of you.”

“And I've consumed you.”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> in Italian Hannibal says "Doctor and Mister Lecter" and in Lithuanian he says "you're drunk, my love" join me in gay hell haha nearly 8k of what?? i have written 12k of my original book in 2 years and i wrote this in 2 weeks ha
> 
>  
> 
> also ambiguous ending idk if u wanna think will figured it out of if hes just really into that shit its up 2 u
> 
> follow me @ sugaxwara.tumblr.com


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